Gute Nacht Feliciano
by Roderica Edelstein
Summary: World War 2 is finally over, and Germany and Italy go looking for Romano, whom they haven't seen in years. WARNING: major character death. Rated for language (and bloodshed). Human names used. Pairings are Gerita (what else?) and Spamano. PLEASE READ AND REVIEW!


**A/N: WARNING. DO NOT READ THIS IF YOU ARE IN A GOOD MOOD. It's kind of depressing - well, I wrote it at 5AM, what do you expect? Just be prepared for...bad things to happen. Don't say I didn't warn you!**

**Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia, etc. etc. **

The two men hurried down the street in the August twilight, their boots loud on the dusty cobbles. Their strides were not well-matched; the brown-haired man was a good three inches shorter than his blond companion, and was almost running in his effort to keep up.

His boot caught suddenly against one of the broken cobblestones, and he would have fallen had the other man not grabbed his arm and hauled him upright. Happiness surged through him at the touch, and he flashed a wide, grateful smile at the taller man. "Grazie, Ludwig! What would I do without you, eh?"

Irritation at his companion's usual clumsiness had been bubbling up in Ludwig's chest, and he was on the point of emitting a strained, 'Scheiße, Dummkopf, can you not even stand on your _own two feet_ for TWO MINUTES?' when that grin hit him, that grin he'd come to know so well, and his anger melted away instantly. _And what would I do without you, Feliciano?_ he thought, finding to his amazement that the compliment had caused his face to redden. To cover his embarrassment, he said hastily, "Ja, ja, whatever. You're sure this is the right street?"

Feliciano nodded, his single ringlet bouncing enthusiastically as he did so. Ludwig had seen it a hundred times before, of course, but it still so mesmerised him that he almost missed the answer. "Si, of course! You think I don't know where my own big brother lives?"

A momentary shadow crossed Feliciano's features, and Ludwig opened his mouth to say something before thinking better of it. What was there to say, after all, except the question in both their minds, the question neither of them dared voice? _'How do we know he even made it back here? We haven't seen him for two years, and that was before the Allied attack. Anything could have happened.'_

They were both silent, until Feliciano pulled on Ludwig's arm and cried, "There it is, see? I told you!" And he pointed across the street.

Feliciano's fingers on his arm had sent a thrill through his body, and for a few delicious moments Ludwig was too light-headed to concentrate. _Feliciano,_ he thought deliriously, _I…_ He shook himself, and told himself sternly, _Not now. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Right now Feliciano needs you to focus._

Following the line of Feliciano's pointing finger, he found himself looking at a small, rather rundown house, painted the same faded yellow as its neighbours. "How can you tell? There's no number on the door, and they all look the same to me." Actually, this one was in a worse state than the others – there were tiles missing from the uneven roof, and old lines scored not only the house's paintwork but most of the visible windowpanes. This obvious state of disrepair awoke a sense of unease in the pit of his stomach, and anxiety began to gnaw at him.

But Feliciano's reply pushed the unspoken fear to the back of his mind. "Tomatoes, see?"

_What on earth –? Some kind of code word, or – oh. _For the first time he noticed the tomato plant in its cracked blue pot sitting by the front door. Everything else on the street seemed tired, jaded, broken, overcome by the oppressive heat (which had only now begun to cool with the approach of evening) and the poverty which recent war had only deepened – but somehow this plant was strong and healthy, its vibrant leaves sheltering several ripe fruits.

_Oh, of course. This is _Lovino, _after all._ Feeling somewhat foolish, Ludwig turned to his companion. "Ja. I see. Now do you want me to knock, or will you do it?"

Feliciano frowned – such a sweet expression, Ludwig realised – and then, in a small voice, volunteered, "Maybe you should, Ludwig. Big brother never seems very pleased to see me."

_I'm hardly his favourite person either, Feliciano,_ thought Ludwig, remembering the various insults and death-threats he had traded with Lovino Vargas during the time they had known one another. The line 'suck my balls you damn potato bastard' had particularly stuck in the memory. _Do you think he's going to do a dance of joy when he sees me on his doorstep? You're even crazier than I thought…._ He realised Feliciano had moved and was now cowering behind him, his teeth chattering despite the still-sweltering heat. _No, you just wanted to use me as a shield. Fair enough, Feliciano. _

With Feliciano trailing behind him, Ludwig stepped up to the door and rapped sharply on it, three times. They both waited, tense, straining to hear sound from inside the house. Neither one breathed –

- until the door flew open suddenly, and a man stood on the thresh-hold before them. A man with hair one shade darker than Feliciano's, but already streaked with grey – prematurely, Ludwig thought, placing the man at no more than twenty-five years of age – and with darkly-shadowed green eyes. This man looked a little like Feliciano, it was true; but he was not Lovino.

"Well?" he demanded, in the rasping tones of a heavy smoker (and, sure enough, there was a cigarette clamped in his left hand. His right sleeve, Ludwig realised with a jolt, was empty.)

"We're looking for a man by the name of Vargas. Lovino Vargas."

At the mention of Lovino's name, the shadowed eyes grew wide with shock. Ludwig thought he saw something dart across the green, unguarded; but then the drawn face was set again into a frown, and there was nothing sweet about _this_ expression. "Well, you've got the wrong place, you damn Kraut. Ain't nobody here but me."

He moved to slam the door in Ludwig's face, but then stopped short. "You said 'we're looking', not 'I'm looking'," he said suspiciously. "Who else –"

His question was interrupted by Feliciano peering over Ludwig's shoulder and exclaiming incredulously, "Big brother Antonio? Is it really you?"

Ludwig looked hard at the man in the doorway. Yes, it really was Feliciano's middle brother. War and its aftermath had not been kind to Antonio; Ludwig would not have recognised him had Feliciano not cried out his name.

"Big brother!" Feliciano rushed up to him, almost knocking over Ludwig in the process, and threw his arms around Antonio.

Something was very wrong; he felt it immediately, and stepped back. His eyes travelled, as Ludwig's had done, to the empty right sleeve of Antonio's shirt. "Santa Maria!" he breathed. "Big brother, your _arm!_"

Involuntarily Antonio glanced down at his shoulder too, at the terrible injury that to him was a mere distraction from another, far greater pain. "Oh, that, si. I seem to have mislaid it. How very careless of me." He laughed humourlessly, the laugh turning into a dry cough.

Both Ludwig and Feliciano were rooted to the doorstep with shock. _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. Mein Gott, no wonder me called me a 'damn Kraut'. If anyone has a reason to hate my guts, it's him._ Ludwig groaned inwardly.

Feliciano, meanwhile, was whimpering softly, 'Big brother…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, big brother…' Fat tears began to course down his cheeks, and the whimper subsided into unintelligible sobs as he buried his face in his older brother's shirt.

Ludwig noticed Antonio's shoulders stiffen at the contact; the injured man's face hardened as he stared down at his distraught brother. And yet there was something marginally less harsh about his tone when he said, "You'd better come in, brother." He looked up at Ludwig, and the harshness returned. "You too, Kraut."

With his left arm he spun Feliciano round and half-pushed him into the house. Ludwig followed, fighting the urge to tear Feliciano away from his brother, to embrace him until he forgot Antonio's pain and his own guilt. _Neither of us started that damn Civil War, Feliciano. You barely had a hand in it._ He couldn't bear to hear Feliciano crying; each sob hit him like a bullet in the guts (and he'd taken enough of those – well, one was enough for anybody. But he knew he would rather go through any physical agony himself, any torture or humiliation at Allied hands, than watch his Feliciano suffer like this.)

The three men passed through a shabby hallway into a shabbier kitchen. Papers were scattered over a stained table, which had a pile of old magazines supporting one leg, and everywhere Ludwig looked things were broken – mugs without handles, plates lying smashed on the stone floor, another cracked window. Judging from the state in which he regularly left their shared room, Ludwig could imagine Feliciano living quite happily in the midst of such squalor – having caused most of it himself, of course – but Lovino? Well, he knew from Roderich what a slob Lovino had been as a child. Probably he was the same now.

_Those two. They may squabble, but they're more alike than they realise._

The thought must have made him smile, because next thing he knew Antonio was scowling in his face. "You think it's funny, do you? You would! After all, the whole bloody thing was your fault, your damn fault, _Kraut._" _That's taking it too far. I didn't _orchestrate _your Civil War, did I?_ Antonio slammed his fist down on the table top, causing the assorted papers which covered it to jump. One slid to the floor; Ludwig reached down to pick it up, and as he did so he couldn't help noticing that it was an unopened letter. Addressed to Lovino Vargas.

Antonio's face twisted into a deeper scowl, and he snatched the letter out of Ludwig's hand and hurriedly slipped it back in amongst the other documents. "I don't want your dirty hands on any of L- I mean, of my stuff." He paused to take another drag from the cigarette, then noticed that Ludwig and Feliciano were both standing awkwardly behind chairs, not venturing to lean on them. "Sit down then, if you must," he muttered grudgingly.

He did not sit down himself, however, although there were four chairs. (Ludwig wondered who else visited the house. Roderich? No, not with the place in this state. Francis perhaps? Or women?) Instead, he grunted something about coffee and meandered over to one of the cupboards. As he started rummaging inside it, empty bottles chinked loudly, and Ludwig wondered how he had missed the smell of alcohol when he first stepped into the house; it was obvious now.

While Antonio's back was turned, Ludwig glanced around the room again. His gaze alighted on a photograph in a little gilt frame that stood on the window-sill above the kitchen sink (which was, he noted, full of unwashed dishes). It was hard to make out in the evening gloom, but he was pretty sure that the picture was of Lovino. Smiling.

Ludwig reached out and squeezed Feliciano's hand under the table. The tear-stained face that Feliciano turned to him made Ludwig wish he could kiss him there and then – but it didn't seem appropriate to do so in front of someone he (and, yes Feliciano) had caused to be injured in a stupid war. So he just held onto Feliciano's hand, and said nothing.

After a few minutes of tense near-silence – undercut by clinking bottles, Antonio's angry exhalations of smoke, and the occasional sob from Feliciano – their host (such as he was) returned to the table, preceded by the welcome aroma of coffee. He carried the three mugs all at once, either not realising or not caring that the boiling contents were slopping over the sides and scalding his hand. He set each one down with a jolt, causing even more liquid to run over; Ludwig saw that the one Antonio set down for himself, before pulling up a chair, contained liquor rather than coffee.

They drank in silence; Ludwig didn't even bother to murmur 'Danke', knowing the outburst it would provoke, and Feliciano was still shaky from weeping. When the three of them had almost drained their cups – Antonio knocked his back with the ease of a practised drinker – Feliciano's brother said, "I suppose you'll be wondering what I'm doing here."

"Well, Lovino is your brother, Signor Carriedo. You do have a right…"

Again the flash of something in Antonio's eyes at the mention of Lovino. "Brothers…yes." The way he said it made Ludwig suddenly certain that it wasn't women this kitchen had ever entertained. _Aha._

"Feliciano and I…" Ludwig met Antonio's questioning stare, and finally the other man nodded. "Si, I understand. Lovino and I also."

Feliciano blinked at his older brother as comprehension dawned; he'd had no idea. "Well, where is he then? Is he upstairs?" Taking in Antonio's expression for the first time, he cried, "Oh no, big brother, did you have a fight?"

_Poor fool,_ thought Ludwig, as the truth he'd half guessed at finally hit him. _My poor foolish Feliciano. How can he not see it?_

"No," Antonio said quietly. "No, he isn't here, and it's not because we fell out." His voice was rising. "You and your stupid wars, Feliciano. It's your fault, yours and your bastard of a lover's!" He almost shouted, "He hasn't been here for _two years_." Then his voice dropped again, and the final, terrible words were delivered in little more than a whisper, as if he could barely bring himself to speak the truth.

"Lovino Vargas is dead."

For what seemed like an eternity, nobody moved. Then Feliciano sprang to his feet with a cry of, 'You're lying!' Faced with Antonio's sombre expression – proof, if any were needed, that he was not – he hurled his nearly-empty mug at a wall and rushed out of the room.

"Interesting," remarked Antonio, in a voice devoid of emotion. "That was exactly how I reacted when they told me he wasn't coming back. Same wall, too." Sure enough, there was an old coffee stain on the wall just above the mark Feliciano had left. "Different mug, though, obviously."

Ludwig could hear Feliciano thundering from room to room – neither of them had removed their boots, he suddenly realised – calling for his brother. Somehow Ludwig didn't dare follow him; there was nothing that he could do to comfort him, no answer he could make to the desperate cries of "Lovino! Lovino, where are you, big brother?"

The footsteps were overhead now – Feliciano must have found the stairs – and the call had changed. "Where are you, Lovi?" That was Feliciano's nickname for his older brother, and hearing it cut Ludwig to the heart.

Antonio lit another cigarette, coughed out another mirthless laugh. "I used to call Lovino that too, you know."

"What did he call you?" Ludwig blurted out. It was an absurd question to ask, and Ludwig didn't really expect an answer – maybe a punch in the teeth. He had no idea why he had said that in particular; he was trying to distract himself from the sound of Feliciano's increasingly desperate search, and the question had just slipped out.

Instead of being angry, though, Antonio seemed faintly amused. "Tonio," came the idle reply. Ludwig knew it was selfish and ridiculous, but he felt a stab of jealousy; Feliciano had never called him anything but plain old _Ludwig_.

He realised with a shock that the cries had stopped; Feliciano was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching them. At once he got up to go to him, comfort him – but Feliciano folded his arms, barring the way. The look on his face was terrible.

Ludwig didn't know what he had expected; more tears, probably, but not _this._ Not the mouth set in the grimmest of lines, not the eyes burning with rage, rage at Ludwig's responsibility for his brother's death. He'd never even seen Feliciano angry before; now he was beyond the bounds of mere anger into the realm of hatred. Ludwig realised he was terrified.

"Feliciano, I –"

"_Chiudi il culo_." _Shut the fuck up. _Ludwig was momentarily stunned into silence. He and Feliciano were the same age, but suddenly he felt very, very much younger.

There was no tremor now in Feliciano's beautiful face, no softness – only a black hatred – in those lovely hazel eyes Ludwig so seldom got to see. Still, Ludwig reached out a hand towards him, intending only to touch his arm, reassure him that he was still here, that he could live with being hated –

- and Feliciano's hand went to his belt, and when he raised it again he was holding a pistol.

"No! Please – my little Felici –"

Hearing his lover's pet name for him, a name which had also once been used by his brother, had an immediate effect on Feliciano. His eyes blazed almost gold with fury, and when he spoke it was in tones colder than ice.

"Thanks to you – _Kraut – _I am nobody's _Felici_ now. Least of all yours." And he fired before Ludwig could make a reply.

_I suppose I deserved that,_ he thought hazily, swaying on his feet. _I suppose it _was_ my fault…_

Then he realised.

"Oh, mein Gott, no, no, PLEASE! Scheiße. Scheiße! Oh Felici, mein Liebling, what have you _done_? Oh mein Gott, mein _Gott, please, _NO!"

For the blood that was staining the stone floor slowly crimson was not Ludwig's, nor was it Ludwig who slowly crumpled to the flagstones, eyes already half-closed.

"Oh, Felici. Trust you not to know one end of a gun from the other," Ludwig whispered, falling to his knees next to Feliciano. He had seen plenty of wounds in the last decade of bloodshed, and he could tell immediately that there was no hope. He would have pulled off his jacket regardless and tried to stem the flow of blood from the hole in Feliciano's chest; but he realised Feliciano was trying to say something.

At first he thought Feliciano was cursing him, for although the string of words made no sense to him he could tell that they were ancient. Then he caught a phrase he recognised. _'Pater noster, qui est in caelis….'_

His lover was praying.

It filled him with shame to realise that he did not know the prayer well enough to recite it for Feliciano, so instead he took Feliciano's hand in his, and stroked his hair, gently, with the other. There was no protest, but Ludwig couldn't be sure whether Feliciano was truly aware of him anymore. When it came to the 'Amen', Ludwig quietly added his own voice – and so, to his surprise, did Antonio, who had crept to his brother's side and taken his other hand.

"Goodbye, little brother," Antonio whispered, and although his eyes were dry his voice was hoarser than Ludwig had ever heard it. "Goodnight. _Buenas noches,_ little Feliciano."

Feliciano's eyes fluttered open; whether or not he saw the two figures leaning over him, Ludwig didn't know. "Goodbye, Antonio." It was little more than a breath. "Goodnight, Lovi, Grandpa." And then – as the light faded from his eyes and his hand in Ludwig's fell limp – so faintly that Antonio did not catch it, and Ludwig himself couldn't be sure he was not imagining it, he murmured, "_Buena notte, Ludi mio caro."_

And then, and then. Then there was the awful howling in Ludwig's ears, the howling that he only realised was coming from his own throat when he collapsed for want of breath. Then there was the blood on his face and hands, Feliciano's blood, and he was lying across Feliciano's chest, sobbing and screaming into a scarlet floor. Then there was Antonio, Antonio's hand pulling him gently away from the body and tenderly closing his brother's eyes for the last time, Antonio's strong voice and calm words, _It's over now, he's gone,_ and the brandy he was given – he swallowed it all at once and it burned him, but not badly enough, not nearly badly enough to smother the other pain, the one which seemed only to grow and grow, shattering his heart and ribs and filling his lungs with grief instead of air, because his Felici was gone, and it was his fault…

When he could breathe again – he did not know how long he had been curled up next to Feliciano, but Antonio had thrown a blanket over them both and lit the table-lamp, for it was dark outside – he struggled into a sitting position, and looked over at Antonio, who was calmly smoking yet another cigarette. Again barely knowing why he was asking, Ludwig began, "Antonio?"

"Si, señor?"

Even the polite address barely registered. "After Lovino died. What kept you?"

"Why didn't I follow him, you mean? Isn't obvious?" He glanced at the room around them. "I had housework to do." Seeing Ludwig's confusion at his sarcasm, he grew serious again. "Truly, amigo? Because – " and here he gestured to his right shoulder – "I am – I was – right-handed, and I never learnt to shoot with my left."

Ludwig looked away. Feliciano was still smiling up at him – how many mornings had he woken up to that smile? Some forgotten reserve of common sense took over then, and he said mechanically, "We'll need to prepare him for the funeral."

"Help me carry him upstairs, and I can do the rest," Antonio said. Ludwig nodded dumbly and scooped Feliciano into his arms; Feliciano's head lolled against Ludwig's shoulder, as if he were a sleepy child being carried to bed. "Oh, Felici," Ludwig murmured in his ear, as he followed Antonio up a narrow flight of stairs. They turned into a tiny box room – "This was Feliciano's room when he was little, before he was taken away," – and Ludwig laid Feliciano down on the bed. Then he flung himself down in a chair at the bedside, buried his head in his hands, and wept.

Antonio waited for his sobs to subside, then said, "Thank Our Lady he had an easier death than my Lovi." Ludwig looked up a fraction, which was Antonio's cue to answer the question on his face. "POW camp. One of Braginski's, the evil bastard." He was about to spit on the floor in disgust; but it felt disrespectful to do so with Feliciano lying there, and so he stopped himself. "He starved to death – too proud to eat their food. Ah, Lovi." He shook his head. "That tomato plant out by the front door? I look after it for him. Tomatoes were his favourite."

A pause. Then Ludwig asked. "You don't know where he is, then?"

"Some war cemetery over at Braginski's place. I never wanted to know. I wouldn't feel any better having a headstone to go and cry over, somehow."

"So what will happen to Feliciano?"

"They'll put him with Grandpa, I suppose."

There was another pause, a longer one, and then Ludwig said, "Could you leave us for a moment, please, Señor Carriedo?"

Antonio smiled, not bitterly but sadly. "Si, si, of course." He went over to the door, and didn't turn round as he said, "Feliciano knew what he was doing with that gun. You're not the only one who was to blame for Lovi's…– why do you think they called it a World War?" Then he left, closing the door behind him.

Ludwig looked down at his bloody hands and realised that at some point he must have picked up the pistol – because here it was. He didn't remember taking it, but he understood what he needed to do.

Taking Feliciano's arms, Ludwig crossed them over the lifeless chest. Then he knelt and kissed Feliciano's cold lips, twice, to make up for the kiss he had not dared steal in the kitchen.

Laying one hand on top, he whispered, "Ich liebe dich, mein Liebling." He remembered how once Lovino had threatened to send him to his _boring German god_ in his _boring German heaven;_ he didn't know what God was like, but he was sure that heaven couldn't be boring, not with Feliciano around. He put the pistol to his temple. "Gute Nacht, Feliciano."

…

Lying on the bed in the room he had shared with Lovino, Antonio heard the shot, and the two muffled thumps that followed. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, then said softly, "Just you and me left, Francis."

He contemplated getting up and seeing to the bodies; but it was already late into the night, and there would be time enough in the morning. He closed his eyes and let himself sink back into the pillow, imagining Lovino's body beside his in the darkness.

Smiling to himself, he drifted off, letting the last cigarette of the day fall smouldering on to the bedclothes. _I'll sort everything out tomorrow… Te amo, Lovi…_


End file.
